‘Hello Jennifer Sorenson,’ the girl said, ignoring her boss. Her voice was almost a growl. ‘I have been looking for you.’
Jennifer froze, waiting for billowy clouds of breath to form at Laura’s lips, somehow knowing none would. The girl wasn’t breathing.
‘No, please no,’ she whispered, ‘oh, David. I’m so sorry—’
‘What’s going on?’ David demanded. ‘Laura? Please tell me what this is about—’
The girl broke in, ‘Jennifer Sorenson, I need the portal, now. We can do this a friendly way, or—’ Laura collapsed in a heap, a discarded pile of clothes and fleshed bones, but no spirit, no soul remained.
‘—we can do this an unfriendly way.’ David’s voice had changed. He bent down and plucked something from the girl’s hand, a packet of something, maybe.
Jennifer couldn’t look at him. Overcoming her momentary paralysis, she turned and fled back along the path.
Too soon, she was exhausted – she wasn’t in good sprinting-at-altitude shape – and she was forced to jog. She tried to ignore David’s voice – no, not David, anymore, some demon prince – as he exhorted her to stop.
‘You can’t run, Jennifer Sorenson. You realise I have your daughter.’
That stopped her in her tracks. As she doubled over to catch her breath, the mother lioness within her roused itself. In spite of the icy cold, she was sweating. ‘You motherless prick,’ she snarled, ‘if you hurt her, I swear to Christ I will tear out your black heart with my own hands.’
‘Time is wasting and you have a choice to make,’ David said, ignoring her toothless threat.
‘What choice?’ Jennifer didn’t back away; she could see a wound on David’s hand was dripping dark blood onto the snow. She shuddered.
‘Turn the portal over to me and live, or die right now,’ David said. ‘I very rarely offer anyone a choice. You should consider yourself honoured.’ He smiled, but like the voice, it was no longer David Johnson’s smile, just a twisted caricature. ‘So what will it be?’
‘Why give me a choice?’
‘Because either way, I get what I want, which is to return to Eldarn today.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
‘Insightful, too,’ he said, ‘how delightful.’ He chuckled. ‘I plan to kill Hannah, very slowly, and very painfully. If I let you live, then you will live knowing there is nothing you can do to save her and I can rejoice in the fact that I have driven you mad with helplessness and grief. For me, it’s undoubtedly a win-win situation. For you, not so much.’ The idiom sounded strange in that not-David voice; Jennifer lost control and charged the thing that had stolen David Johnson. She chose death.
As she ran blindly towards him, tears freezing on her cheeks, David’s face changed. A quizzical look passed over his features, as if things were not working out the way he had planned; maybe Jennifer’s actions had taken him by surprise. He tilted his head slightly, as though listening for something, ignoring the fact that a crazed, fifty-something woman was coming head-on at him.
Though distracted, he side-stepped her attack and sent her sprawling over Laura, the dead check-out girl. As she crashed down, Jennifer cried out in pain and tried to roll back to her feet for another lunge.
Not-David had gone back to contemplating the forest. He didn’t look at her, but held up one hand in a wait-just-a-moment gesture, then said, ‘Jennifer Sorenson. You are the luckiest woman in this unlovely world. I don’t need you any more. Of course, I still plan to torture and kill Hannah, and I will be sure to bring a piece or two back here for you, but for now, I don’t need you. A very good, very old friend of mine has allowed his curiosity to get the better of him again and he has just opened the door for me to go home. Goodbye, dear Jennifer Sorenson. We will meet again.’
With that, David Johnson seemed to shimmer – he looked like he was under attack by a cloud of yellow and green insects. He stepped from the bicycle path into the snow and faded away.
CARPELLO’S WAREHOUSE
Brexan was about to give up for the night. She’d spent two days searching and she was tired and cross, and only the thought of food was keeping her from screaming her frustration aloud – when she spotted Carpello Jax himself, slinking along the side of one of the warehouses she hadn’t yet identified. He stayed in the shadows until he reached a window near the back. Huddling behind a pile of empty boxes, Brexan watched, but it was nearly half an aven before he moved back towards the pier. She ducked down low to the ground until he had turned the corner, then started to trail him, keeping her distance. This time she would be extra careful – no bumping into crates or scolding irritating children – the last thing she needed was a repeat of the Jacrys mission that had ended so ignominiously.
She followed the merchant through the sparse evening crowd, warm despite the cold night. She tried to work out what Carpello been doing back there – from what little she could see he had been eavesdropping at the window, but if that was his own warehouse, that didn’t make any sense at all – unless … the only thing Brexan could imagine frightening the fat man enough to make him run, weeping, in public, was someone trying to kill the rutter. Maybe that’s why Carpello was sneaking about his own warehouse.
She watched him cross the great bridge before she did the same and descended onto the lively northern wharf. He walked away from the waterfront and into a street Brexan recognised as running to the barracks in the old imperial palace. The city was well-lit here, much more brightly than on the industrial southern wharf: if people came to Orindale to enjoy the food, the wine and the Ravenian Sea, they came to the northern pier, where the aromas of different cuisines perfumed the air, lively bellamir music lifted the spirits and young people flocked, looking for love but willing to settle for lust: here there was a nightly celebration of life in the occupied city. If they came to do business, maybe to seek their fortunes in the shipping industry, they came to the southern pier.
Walking carefully to avoid her boots clattering on the cobblestone street – this was an affluent part of the city – she marked the house Carpello let himself into: a tall, well-built and obviously expensive townhouse. The intricate stone masonry and stained-glass windows made it an easy place to find again in the daylight. She took in as much of the street as possible as she muttered, ‘Now, I’ve got you, Carpello, you horsecock, and I am going to carve Versen’s name in your chest.’
She grinned to herself and retraced her steps back to the southern wharf, where she spent the night huddled by the same window Carpello had visited earlier that evening. She dozed from time to time, but heard nothing; by the time the sun rose over the docks she had about decided it was abandoned. Just as she was about to leave to find some food and tecan, she heard the brace on the dock-side door slide back. Someone was coming out.
She dived behind the shelter of the building and hustled down the alley, ducking behind the same boxes she had used to hide from Carpello, but no one passed her, so she ventured out from behind her makeshift blind and moved cautiously onto the waterfront. Even from a distance, she could recognise the gait of the man walking away from her: Jacrys or Lafrent, Prince Malagon’s spy and Lieutenant Bronfio’s murderer always carried himself as though he knew something no one else knew. So Sallax hadn’t killed him.
Brexan was cold and hungry herself, but she dared not move in that direction; Jacrys was sure to spot her; he had proven his skills in that arena. Instead, she decided to break into the warehouse: maybe she could discover what the spy was up to. As she stepped through the door, the black cloud that had been hovering in place over the harbour for the past Moon drifted back over the city, where it appeared to join forces with another, slightly smaller but the same threatening colour. The pair blew east, side-by-side, against the wind, as if they had been summoned.
Brexan moved quickly, scared that Jacrys would return soon. Peering through the window she could see the cavernous structure was empty, but at one end there were some rough doors; offices, maybe. Jacrys ha
d left the main door unlocked. Brexan thought carelessness was not his style; now she was convinced he didn’t intend being away for long. She hurried towards the rooms at the back.
Sallax was in the second room she visited, immediately behind what looked like Carpello’s private office and, temporarily, at least, Jacrys’ living quarters. The big Ronan was sleeping, and even in the dim light thrown by a bedside candle, she could see that he looked much healthier than the last time they met. He had obviously been well fed, his hair had been cut and he had been given a shave. Most importantly, he no longer stank like a midden. Brexan smiled in relief and moved closer.
His body was bound across the chest and one shoulder with clean strips of heavy fabric – Jacrys had obviously treated the partisan’s injuries. She had thought him in disguise, bent over as if he were a wounded beggar, but seeing him bound up like this, she wondered if he had broken something coming over the Blackstones. Brexan marvelled at the strength of will that kept some people going. She wondered if she would have given up, but remembering her broken cheek and cracked ribs, decided to give herself more credit … perhaps she and Sallax were not so different after all. Suddenly she wanted very badly to take him away from Jacrys and this cold, damp warehouse. The tapestries on the walls and woven carpets on the floor did little to take the edge off the bitter cold; the Redstone would be far better for Sallax’s convalescence – not to mention getting him out of Jacrys’ grip. She had enough silver to stay on there at least another Twinmoon and in that time, she would nurse the big man back to health.
Her own transformation was complete: she had become a freedom fighter, just like Sallax, and Versen.
Sallax woke as she was severing the cords holding him down.
‘The girl,’ he started in a murmur, ‘the girl knew Sallax.’
‘Yes, Sallax,’ she replied softly. His injuries were obviously more than just physical. ‘I know you.’
‘The girl,’ he said again, watching her work.
Brexan sat on the edge of the bed, sheathed the knife and asked, ‘Do you want to come with me, Sallax? I have a warm room, with good food and soft blankets. You’ll be comfortable there.’
Sallax appeared anxious, uncertain how to respond.
Brexan glanced towards the chamber doorway. Nervous now, she tried not to show it in her voice. That might upset him. ‘We need to decide pretty quickly, though. All right? Will you come with me?’
‘The girl knew Sallax.’ He grimaced, as if sitting up would be a great struggle and then smiled when he realised nothing was holding him down.
‘I do know you, Sallax. I heard all about you from Versen. He spoke about you, all the time.’ He was too thin, but she would see to that. The venison stew at the Redstone would fatten him up. She would help him regain a sense of who he was, and how he had come to be in Orindale. Brexan didn’t know what could have turned Sallax’s mind to such paste – maybe he had encountered one of the wraiths Gabriel O’Reilly had described and instead of killing him, they had addled his mind.
‘Versen?’ Sallax reached for her. Brexan started to back away, thought better of it and leaned forward to take his hands.
‘Yes, Versen. I knew— I know Versen. He and I are close friends.’ She swallowed the lump in her throat. This was no time to start crying; she had to get him up and out of this warehouse before Jacrys returned.
‘You know where Versen is?’
Her shoulders heaved, and she smeared away tears. ‘Yes, I know where Versen is.’
Sallax groaned as he lifted himself from the bed and swung his legs over the side. As he placed his bare feet on the carpet he began looking around the room for clothes. ‘It’s cold,’ he muttered.
‘You’re right. It’s too cold to take you all the way up there like that. You’ll make it without boots, though – I can get you new boots when you are up and about. Wait here. I’ll see what I can find in the other rooms.’
Brexan hustled into the spy’s room; there was no point in going about on tiptoes; Jacrys was still out buying breakfast. She spotted a bag left open beside the fireplace. Inside, she found a tunic, a finely woven shirt of quality wool with a delicate pattern stitched around the collar and across each wrist. ‘Fop,’ she said, her lip curling, and put it back. She found a wool blanket on the cot Jacrys had moved in front of the fireplace. ‘Sleeping in here with a blanket and fire blazing while Sallax freezes in the other room, motherless rutter,’ she scolded. The more she discovered about the spy, the less she liked him.
‘I wish you would leave my mother out of it,’ a soft voice said. ‘As for being a fop, what can I say? One has one’s vices. Some, like our good friend in the other room, enjoy fighting for a cause. Our benefactor, the good Carpello, well, he gets his pleasure from a young girl from time to time. Me? I like fine clothing.’ Jacrys stood in the doorway that separated Carpello’s office from the vast emptiness of the warehouse. He held two loaves of warm bread, a block of strong cheese, two sausages and a flagon of what smelled like tecan.
She drew her knife as she turned; this time there was no point pretending she was anything but an enemy. ‘I’m glad you brought in breakfast. I got hungry looking for you.’
‘Under orders from General Oaklen again, I assume?’ The spy placed his food on a broad walnut desk. ‘Is he still determined for you to retrieve that stone?’
Brexan smirked. Jacrys still had no idea the stone was lost in another world an eternity away.
‘What’s funny?’ Jacrys asked, drawing the dirk from his belt.
‘Nothing, Jacrys, or Lafrent, or whoever you are today, nothing except that you are going to have to travel much further than you could even imagine if you want to get that stone.’ She began circling, hoping she could be quick and ruthless as she had been fighting the Seron in the meadow on the Ronan border. There was no way out, except past Jacrys. She unfastened her cloak and let it drop to the floor.
‘I’m sorry to say that when I am finished with you today, my dear, there will not be much left for old General Oaklen to—’
She cut him off. ‘Oaklen didn’t send me, you arrogant dryhump.’
‘Oh, really?’ Jacrys didn’t appear to care. ‘Working on your own – a Ronan girl with a passion for freedom? A freedom even your grandparents never knew?’
‘I was one of Bronfio’s platoon. I saw you murder him.’
‘And I suppose you followed me all the way here to get revenge. Oh, but that is precious, my dear. You? A trained killer? Don’t make me chuckle. You should have died with the rest of that wretched platoon in Riverend Palace.’ He handled the dirk as if it were an extension of his own hand.
Brexan watched him, and tried to keep from looking frightened; he was obviously better than she with a short blade. The only chance she had was to defeat him mentally; beating him physically would need a stroke of exceptional luck.
‘Do you hope I’ll believe you are Prince Malagon’s top field agent?’ she asked, sneering. ‘Look at you – you’re a mess. I wonder if the prince knows you’re holding one of the Resistance’s top men as your private prisoner in a warehouse less than a quarter of an aven’s amble from where he himself is in residence … and you, living in a warehouse yourself? You are on your own, Jacrys, just like me. So stop trying to sell me a new ploughhorse; I’m full to here with your blather.’
Jacrys lunged, as Brexan had expected, and she calmly parried his attack and moved back, content to let Carpello’s desk stand between them for a moment.
‘Not bad, my dear.’ Jacrys circled again. He wasn’t breathing heavily; Brexan tried to mask her own, heavier, breathing. ‘Most of my opponents don’t survive even this long. Sad, isn’t it, that fighting with a short blade has become such a lost art. Too many have gone over to great heavy weapons, rapiers, and—’
Jacrys took the blow behind one ear and crumpled soundlessly to the floor beside the desk. Stepping over the spy’s legs, Sallax delivered another hefty blow to his temple. The spy’s body twitched several ti
mes before he lay still.
‘Is he dead?’ Brexan asked, retrieving the fancy tunic from the bag and helping Sallax into it.
Sallax shrugged and tossed his makeshift club – a table-leg, Brexan thought, towards the fireplace. She was pleased – and grateful – to see that he had not lost his skill.
She packed the breakfast Jacrys had so thoughtfully provided into another of the spy’s shirts and picked up the flagon. As she stepped over the spy’s body, she said, ‘You know, Jacrys, you are so right: fighting with a short blade is a lost art – just as well cracking someone’s skull with a piece of bedroom furniture just never seems to go out of style.’
She looked up at Sallax, who stared back at her, apparently oblivious to the fact that he had probably killed a Malakasian officer. ‘You’ll have to go without boots for now,’ she said, ‘his are too small for you, but I’ll get you some as soon as we get to the Redstone. Here, wrap that blanket round you too; it’s cold out there. Can you make it?’
‘Versen?’ Sallax asked.
‘Yes, I have news of Versen.’ Brexan uncorked the flagon with her teeth and took a drink. It was tecan, warm and tasty. She took another swallow, passed it to Sallax, who did likewise, and took him by the arm. ‘Come,’ she said calmly, ‘let’s get going.’
TRAVER’S NOTCH
‘That coffee smells great,’ Steven said, opening a saddlebag and rooting around for the last of the venison strips. ‘When I was driving from Charleston to Denver, I must have drunk three gallons of the stuff.’
Mark looked up from where he had been carefully pouring hot water through one of the filters Steven had stolen from Howard’s kitchen. ‘I can’t wait. I’ve grown so used to tecan, I’m worried I’ve lost my taste for it.’ On the outskirts of Traver’s Notch, a farm had provided milk, cheese, bread and vegetables to complement their venison. Mark had negotiated for a small metal pot for the brewing of coffee. Now he gripped the thin paper filter awkwardly between two fingers and trickled water slowly through the mound of ground coffee, trying to imitate the timing of their coffee maker at home. ‘It’s not the easiest thing in the world,’ he admitted, ‘but so far, it certainly smells like coffee.’
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